


Firelight

by Laerkstrein



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Love/Hate, Romance, Thor: The Dark World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 21:56:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laerkstrein/pseuds/Laerkstrein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sif snorts. "I do hate you. I hate you for what you've done to him. The brother who loves you."</p><p>
  <i>The Dark World.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firelight

**Author's Note:**

> I find this to be one of the more complicated relations of the _Thor_ universe, based not only on film canon, but on comic and mythological standpoints as well. And I enjoy mashing things of the sort together, as well as exploring Loki's multi-faceted personality. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a complicated, egotistical bastard. Playing with him is like performing an autopsy for me. I get to pick him apart. 
> 
> As there is little information on how Sif and Loki relate in _The Dark World_ aside from that sassy little attitude he cops when she threatens him in the trailer, I'm doing as I please while, in my opinion, bringing about a believable idea.

"You were sweet once."  
  
A dark brow furrows, the clatter of chains the only other sound save that of popping flame. They don't trust him. Fair enough, what with all the damage he's done, but this, he shifts, is overkill. He's spent months in a cage, had his release procured by the one man he hates above all others, and now, here he is, on the field of battle, the calm before the storm, chained up like a beast.  
  
He looks at her across the ring of fire, bewildered by those words. She's never been fond of him; Loki knows that. She has always preferred Thor, thought the world of that fool, the Son of Odin, while he chased after the lot of them in shadow.   
  
The Trickster forces a laugh. "Aren't you mistaking me for someone else?"  
  
On her knees, Sif thrusts another branch into the blaze, wipes her hands of the pine debris and needles with a swiftly collected handful of dirt.   
  
"No, the warrior says simply, and Loki frowns. "It was you. A quiet child, by your mother's side, staring after us with," a smile, "those sad eyes." She raises her head, looks at him. "Now you're just..."  
  
Angry. Yes, he knows. He has known every minute of the last decade, at least, how angry he is, how deeply that feeling of betrayal has sunk into his flesh, his very bones. It commands him, the rage, the chaos, building him up as the embodiment, and tearing him down as a man. In comparison, he thinks, glancing sparingly at the sleeping forms of the others, Loki knows he is lost. That he is base.   
  
Sif watches him, perhaps expecting him to shout back, tell her that she'd do well to keep her damned mouth shut and mind her own affairs. She is no friend to him, he would say, never has been, though that lost child buried deep in the earth of Asgard had always wished it so. But that, Loki knows, would be ammunition for her. She would seek to use it against him in later days, drive that blade crafted by his own tongue between his ribs and twist, because they both know that Thor cannot use such things against him. Sif, however, holds no such loyalty to him.   
  
The frown deepens, her hand rattling the length of chain at him as though he is a dog, a slight smile on her face in lieu of the firelight as she tries to tug him along. Loki knows he could fight her, cause her grip to tighten, wrap the damned thing about her wrists, her arms, try to draw him in close. He could beat her then, take a shot at her prowess as a warrior and knock her down, perhaps even choke her with the cuffs.   
  
He sighs, doesn't feel himself stand and move to follow her into the tent, only realizing where he is once Sif pushes him back to the ground again.   
  
"Do you know how much I hated you," she begins, hair falling down her back, "when you did this to me?"  
  
A sideways smirk crosses his face. Oh, yes. He remembers. How could he not? She pummeled him for that little stunt, for purposefully and unevenly slicing her golden locks with a knife, altering the shade and leaving it for her to find upon her pillow at dawn. Thor had dragged him out of bed that morning, shoved him out into the courtyard where she had stood, face red and hands trembling as he feigned sincerity and an apology.   
  
"Hated," Loki remarks coolly. "Past tense."  
  
Sif snorts. "I do hate you. I hate you for what you've done to him. The brother who loves you."  
  
"Love." His jaw tightens. "Worthless sentiment." He thinks of the Son of Odin, can see him in his own tent across the campsite, more than likely buried in fur alongside the spirited little mortal he claims to love with his being. "But you already know that, Sif. You know that, though you love, there will be no reciprocation."  
  
His cheek throbs, the flat of her hand having struck hard, rattling his teeth.   
  
 _"Shut up,"_  she hisses, a hand behind his head, tangled in his hair.   
  
Her mouth is hot against his lips, knee grinding hard against his groin as his insides ache, desiring the friction that he hasn't felt in _months._  He can feel her smile, fingers fumbling against the leather and buckles of his dressings, pushing pieces away and leaving him stripped down to tunic and trousers. And, still, she doesn't give him what he wants.   
  
Loki doesn't love her. To say the least, he can't stand her, hates the way she's always played protector for Thor as though he is an infant without fists to defend himself. But not loving her doesn't change the fact that, in past days, they'd play this way, call it a game and hide out in the woods on hunting trips, exchanging mutual pleasure and choked cries in the dark.   
  
He's on his back and she's straddling him, purposely dropping her covered hips against him, pulling the chain to pin his arms above his head.   
  
"Then we are the same in that regard," she says, and shoves her hands against his chest. "You love, but there is not a soul in the whole of Asgard who would return the gesture."  
  
Silvertongue looks up at her with dark eyes, a hand slipping into the pouch at her belt to retrieve the key. She is the jailer tonight, he thinks, and holds his breath as she leans over him again to unfasten the cuffs that have begun to rub his flesh raw.   
  
"A shame you don't feel anything more," Sif whispers, a finger drawn against his lips. "You used to have such bright eyes."  
  
Maybe, he thinks. Once.   
  
"...Shut up."  
  
She is on her feet again, the metal fastenings that bound him falling to the ground.  
  
"Do not mistake this gesture for kindness," Sif says. "I am only doing as Thor would ask."  
  
"Giving me a chance?" Loki sighs, finding the forgotten texture of fur beneath his fingers as it rises up to meet him. "Are you so sure you can trust me now, Sif?"  
  
"If you betray your brother," she warns again, "I will kill you. Take care to remember that."  
  
A smile from him, and she slips back out into the night, the light of the flame flickering in a moment before the tent flap falls shut.   
  
Maybe. Just once. Once more into the fray. Just the pair of them.   
  
"No, Sif," Loki says quietly. "I shan't forget that..."


End file.
